A Death at South Gare

by A Death at South Gare (retail) (epub)

  ‘And now,’ Nancy added, picking up the threads, ‘we find that PortPlus have not been open and transparent with local people and their political representatives. We have learned that PortPlus are funded by Abu Dhabi money. Can a Gulf state have Redcar’s best interests at heart? Questions about James Campbell’s murder must be asked – and answered.’

  ‘That’s better,’ I said with satisfaction. ‘It’s coming together nicely now.’

  I typed another couple of paragraphs.

  ‘On the face of it, such a huge investment project is very attractive. Yes, there will be concerns and some losses, but the price may be thought worth paying. However, motive has to come into it, too, when our political representatives sit down to take decisions. Genuine investment, or a rip-off for short-term gains? And we have to know where the money is coming from. Greater transparency is needed. Above all, was James Campbell – a serving Member of Parliament – murdered because he was prepared to speak out against the project?’

  ‘And you,’ Nancy urged. ‘Your role in this. Mention that, too.’

  I nodded. She was right. Why not?

  So we added a bit about me, about the well-known, local private investigator who had happened upon James Campbell’s body, and who ever since had been pursued by thugs and hitmen. Cleveland Police were working night and day. . . .

  I stopped and mulled it over. It wasn’t bad, as a first draft. Polished well, this would put some uncomfortable questions into the public domain and generate no end of horrific publicity for the project and its sponsors. Michael Donnelly and Bill Peart’s boss would be livid, and frantic in their efforts to contain the damage.

  And the Abu Dhabi sponsors? We’d have to wait and see how they reacted.

  ‘What are your writing skills like?’ I asked, turning to Nancy.

  They weren’t bad. Better than mine anyway. While she beavered away over the report, I made contact again with the main Teesside newspaper. This time I kept clear of their business editor, the man who had not been prepared to listen to a word against PortPlus. Instead, I contacted the crime editor. He was interested. I arranged to meet him.

  I also spoke to Jack Gregory.

  ‘How’s it going, Frank?’

  ‘I’ve been making waves, Jack, helped by Nancy Peters. James would have been proud of us both.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Not over the phone. It’s complicated.’

  And insecure, I reminded him.

  ‘Can we meet?’ he asked.

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  First I met the Gazette crime editor, Jim Edwards, in a Middlesbrough Starbucks not far from Jac Picknett’s gallery. I handed over the report Nancy had fine-tuned. He took it and began to speed-read.

  ‘You write this?’ he asked when he was done.

  I shook my head. ‘An associate wrote it.’

  ‘Does she want a job?’

  ‘She?’

  He grinned. ‘Don’t tell me it was a man? All that righteous indignation?’

  I smiled. ‘It shows, does it? You’re right. We worked on the draft together. But she did the writing. She’s someone who was close to James Campbell.’

  ‘It’s good.’

  He picked up his coffee mug, and seemed surprised to find it empty. He stared down at the half-dozen pages that I had stapled together, collecting his thoughts.

  ‘This is a big story,’ he said eventually, ‘easily the biggest that has ever come my way, to be honest. The question is: what to do with it?’

  ‘Print it!’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not that simple. There are editors, lawyers and owners above me who might well want to suppress it for all sorts of reasons. We’re cautious folk in the provincial press, you know.’

  I shook my head impatiently. ‘Publish and be damned!’

  ‘That old line, eh?’ he said with a chuckle.

  Then he sighed and his expression changed to serious. ‘You’ve got a lot of balls, Frank, taking this on. Do you know how many big guns you’re up against?’

  ‘I’ve met some of them,’ I said, nodding, ‘and I’ve also had to put up with people trying to kill me.’

  ‘So I gather.’ He frowned. ‘I couldn’t print this story as it stands. I’d like to, but I couldn’t get away with it.’

  ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ I said, pushing back my chair.

  ‘No, wait! I’m not saying no. Far from it. I’m thinking tactics. What I would like to do is leak this report to someone I know who will put it on the web, and then make sure that a hundred million people around the world know about it in double-quick time.

  ‘Once it’s there, I’ll go to print. It would be irresponsible and professionally inept not to. I’ll do a big piece about this huge story that’s sweeping the web, and I’ll demand that the authorities investigate and hold back from taking planning decisions relating to the PortPlus project.’ He paused and gave me a quizzical look. ‘What do you think? Could you go along with that?’

  I grinned. ‘It’s perfect!’

  ‘You’re hoping what? That McCardle will lose his funding?’

  I shook my head. ‘More than that, Jim. I want the murder of James Campbell solved, and his killers punished.’

  ‘This should do it,’ Jim Edwards said confidently.

  I told Jack Gregory what Nancy and I had discovered, and what had been agreed with the man from the Gazette.

  He shook his head with astonishment. ‘Christ, Frank, you have been busy!’

  ‘Trying to save my own skin, mostly.’

  ‘So James was right about PortPlus? They really are a bunch of charlatans?’

  ‘Worse than that. The phrase “organized crime” comes to mind. But I’m not too bothered about whether their project is good or not. I want to see them pinned down for Campbell’s murder, and for their attempts to send me and Nancy the same way.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So this story is going to break soon.’

  ‘And go viral fast, I would think.’

  ‘I hope so. What I was wondering was if you know a friendly MP, a friend of James perhaps, who could be alerted and prompted to ask questions in Parliament about the whole affair. Demand an investigation, etcetera.’

  ‘Dennis O’Shea would do it. No question.’

  ‘The Middlesbrough MP?’

  ‘Yes. He is – he was – James’s closest colleague.’

  ‘Will he do it?’

  Jack grinned. ‘When I show him this report of yours, he’ll jump at it! This could make his career.’

  I gave him a copy of our report and left him to it. My feeling was that Nancy and I had done a good day’s work. Now we would have to wait for others to do the same.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  It was a relief to get home after all that. I felt like I had really been through the wringer. Talking, talking, talking all day long. One set of negotiations after another. Not my game. If I was a people person I wouldn’t be living somewhere like Risky Point.

  Then the phone rang.

  ‘They’ve gone, Frank. They’ve bloody gone!’

  ‘Steady, Nancy! What’s gone?’

  ‘The pictures! I went back to the house, and somebody’s taken them.’

  She was struggling to be coherent. She was in a rage.

  ‘Why did you go there again?’

  ‘For the pictures. I told you. James promised me them.’

  ‘Well. . . .’

  I was thinking her claim to ownership was a bit flimsy. Unless Campbell had actually written something down, it was hard to see the legal process giving Nancy’s claim any credibility. In any case, they were worthless.

  ‘Nancy, I know the pictures mean a lot to you. They must have great sentimental value, but they’re not actually worth anything. They. . . .’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Frank! They’re Turners. They’re worth an absolute bloody fortune!’

  ‘Nancy, a friend told me. . . .’

  ‘I know exactly who�
�s taken them, as well. McCardle! And he’s not getting away with it.’

  The phone went dead. I looked at it and shook my head before I put it down. I might as well have saved my breath. Nancy was outraged and in full-power mode.

  While I microwaved some chilli from the freezer, I opened a bottle of an unknown German lager I’d bought from Lidl as an experiment. Or was it Aldi? One or the other. They both offered good deals. The brands were unfamiliar to me but I hadn’t had a poor beer yet from them, and they were cheap.

  I was doing things mechanically, by habit. My mind was elsewhere. That Nancy! She was certainly something.

  Much as I liked her, I had always suspected she knew more than she was telling me. Now here was proof. She had pretended the paintings were of no account, while all the time she had believed them to be priceless. I just couldn’t trust her.

  I smiled ruefully. But how could I blame her? Getting her hands on genuine Turners would have transformed her life. She could have bought an oligarch-style cruiser as well as a decent house, never mind replace her grandad’s old duffel coat!

  Then I wondered again where Jac Picknett had seen the pictures. Who had shown her them? The thought that it might have been Nancy brought a little edge to the situation. But surely not? It couldn’t have been. But if not Nancy, who? Surely she hadn’t known James Campbell?

  I reached for the phone.

  ‘Oh, hello Frank! I was just thinking about you.’

  I smiled. Thinking about me?

  ‘That’s nice, Jac. I like the idea of people thinking about me.’

  She chuckled.

  ‘Jac, I’m still interested in those pictures I emailed you about. I was wondering where you had seen them previously.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it.’ She hesitated and then added, ‘That’s why I was thinking of you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My friend showed me them. But, oddly, I can’t get in touch with him now. I’m worried about him.’

  Alarm bells went off in my head. Suddenly things began to look different. American, eh?

  ‘This friend, Jac. Did he say where he got them?’

  ‘Family heirlooms, he said. Why?’

  Was this the time to tell her they weren’t his? Probably not. I didn’t want her slamming the phone down on me.

  ‘I just wondered,’ I told her. ‘That’s the same story someone else told me.’

  I ended the call while she was trying to question me. I wasn’t ready to answer questions; I was intent on asking them.

  I turned to the computer and switched on. Then I began searching. It didn’t take long. The PortPlus story was beginning to break all over the place. Not on the BBC website yet, but they would soon have to pick it up. Our report really was going viral. So was a lot of pleasingly outraged comment.

  I couldn’t believe how fast Jim Edwards had got to work. Mind you, he had admitted it was the biggest story ever to cross his desk. So he’d had every incentive to go for it.

  Whoever his web contact was, he was a good man too. In just a few hours he had plastered it all over the place. Facebook and Twitter were going crazy with comments. Questions were being asked, opinions offered. The charges and allegations were multiplying. Our report had kicked off a storm.

  I switched back to my email inbox. Jim had sent a copy of his piece for the morning edition of the Gazette. It was brief, and to the point. Urgent questions were being asked online about the murder of Redcar MP James Campbell, and about the possibility of it being linked to a major investment project that he had opposed.

  Jim had also sent me a copy of his article for the lunch time edition of the paper. It was an expanded version of his first piece, concentrating on the spread of the story across the web. A third article was for the evening edition. This was full-on. It set out the case against PortPlus in detail and insisted that there had to be an investigation to determine if the allegations were true.

  He had really gone to town. I was hugging myself with satisfaction. This was all, and more, that we had hoped for. I could scarcely believe it was happening so fast.

  Then an email from Jack Gregory came into my inbox. Dennis O’Shea had tabled a question on PortPlus, linking it to Campbell’s murder, for Prime Minister’s Questions in the House of Commons the next day. Even better!

  Back to the internet. A couple of hours later, a small item edged onto the BBC website. Abu Dhabi Investments had issued a press release saying they were surprised to be linked to the controversy that had arisen on Teesside. It was most unfortunate. The authority was considering its position and would issue a more detailed statement later.

  Bingo!

  I rang Henry and asked if he’d seen it.

  ‘Yeah. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘What do you think? Does it mean what I hope it means?’

  He chuckled. ‘Too early to celebrate properly, Frank. Better to leave it till tomorrow. But, yes. It probably means they’re going to pull out. They have no option.’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘Maybe. But watch yourself, Frank. There’ll be some very angry people out there. Don’t go on TV, or anything like that. In fact, I would consider going into hiding if I were you.’

  It was very hard to think of sleep that night. I kept checking the internet, and watching our story spread. It was all over the world – in just a few hours!

  I rang Nancy a couple of times, wanting to update her and to tell her not to spend time worrying about the fake Turners. But her phone was switched off, or otherwise not working. After the fourth try I began to feel uneasy, worried even. What was it she’d said? She knew who had taken the pictures. And they were not going to get away with it.

  What did that mean?

  With a sinking feeling, I realized what it might mean: she had gone to try to get them back. To Sutton Castle, in other words. I grimaced, and hoped to God she hadn’t.

  I monitored the internet, switching between sites, following the story as it exploded across the globe. Plenty of noise now out of the Middle East. Abu Dhabi was not as popular as it would like to be, it seemed. I waited for a more definitive statement from them.

  Also, I watched the clock and worked the phone, and fretted. Nancy remained unobtainable.

  At 1.15 my phone trilled. I grabbed it, hoping it was Nancy. It wasn’t.

  ‘Jim Henderson here, Frank.’

  ‘Working late?’

  ‘Only a little later than usual. Did you see the pieces I sent you?’

  ‘I did. Thanks. They’re great!’

  ‘We’ve got momentum with the story, Frank. The internet’s going wild.’

  ‘I know. I’ve seen it. Terrific!’

  ‘I thought I’d let you know things are moving even faster than I had dared hope. A statement came out of Abu Dhabi quarter of an hour ago that I’ve been waiting for.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘They deny the rumours – as they put it – that Abu Dhabi money is behind the Teesport takeover bid.’

  ‘Does that mean what I hope it means?’

  ‘It means they’ve pulled the plug. The heat was getting too intense. They have too much to lose around the world to risk their reputation as an honest investor. They’re out of it.’

  ‘So McCardle’s hung out to dry?’

  ‘It looks that way. And so is PortPlus. It’s over. My business editor colleague is going to go nuts in the morning.’

  ‘As are one or two politicians!’ I suggested with a broad smile. ‘Thanks again, Jim. Oh, by the way, I’m told Dennis O’Shea is going to ask a question in the House tomorrow. He’s going to demand a full inquiry.’

  ‘Is he now?’ Jim Henderson chuckled. ‘Sounds like you’ve been doing more than just lobbying me.’

  ‘You’re right. I want James Campbell’s killer, or killers, brought to justice.’

  ‘Me, too. But I’m going home now. Good night, Frank.’

  ‘You, too.’

  While I was still wondering what to do, the phone went off
yet again. It was Bill Peart this time.

  ‘You’re still up, Bill?’

  ‘Damn right I am! If only you’d minded your own business, like I told you to do, I could be safe at home in bed now. Instead. . . . Guess what?’

  ‘You’ve got me there,’ I said warily. ‘What?’

  ‘We’re going to arrest your buddies at PortPlus.’

  ‘For what?’ I asked, hardly daring to believe it.

  ‘Murder, and attempted murder, to start with. Once they’re in the cage we’ll see.’

  ‘And you’re involved, obviously?’

  ‘I’m preparing the paperwork now. We’ll be out at Sutton Castle by dawn. You might want to keep clear – just in case it ever crossed your mind to go sightseeing.’

  ‘Thanks, Bill. I take it you got a breakthrough?’

  ‘Yep. The Geordies squealed. Said they weren’t taking a murder rap for the likes of Rogers and McCardle.’

  ‘So they do have some brains between them?’

  ‘Just a few.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I heard a car nudging along the track. What now?

  I opened the door and went outside to meet it. Surprisingly, it was daylight already, at least light enough to see without headlights. I shielded my eyes against the twin beams and peered at the approaching car. It wasn’t one that was familiar. A BMW, it looked like.

  The car stopped. The passenger door swung open. Out stepped Nancy.

  ‘Morning, Frank!’

  I gaped. I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Nancy! I’ve been trying to ring you all night.’

  ‘Oh, I know!’ She opened the rear door and reached inside.

  ‘I’ve got them,’ she said, straightening up and turning back to me. ‘Look!’

  She held up one of the pictures.

  By then, another woman had got out of the driver’s side. She wore a baseball cap and a denim jacket. I didn’t know her.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I demanded of Nancy. ‘Don’t tell me. Not Sutton Castle?’